


Behavioral Therapy

by aactionjohnny



Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: M/M, Multi, Pete and Billy are not really them but also they are, Psychology, Suicidal Ideation, This is a reference to the episode Assisted Suicide, everyone is pathetic, rusty is a big ol sad sack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-07-28 20:44:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16249454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aactionjohnny/pseuds/aactionjohnny
Summary: It’s hard work to keep The Rusty functioning.





	1. Try To Remember, Forget

**Author's Note:**

> I really love the episode “Assisted Suicide” and I thought Wow there’s so much more we could explore about Rusty’s psyche. I also really love Pete and Billy as Thanatos and Eros, so there they are. Both ships are pretty pivotal to the plot.

Dreams are frightening because you have no control. Save for the few lucky, lucid sleepers, we’re all trapped. 

But he’s never had control. Back when he was little, and powerless as paralyzed sleep. His dreams are mostly memory. The only difference is that he’s taller now. But he speaks in the same high, frightened voice. Face-to-face with a familiar monster. He knows what it is that growls and bares its teeth before him and yet he cannot name it. But as it often is in dreams, he  _ knows.  _ He’ll wake up gasping its name so briefly, and then he’ll forget. 

So his dreams don’t scare him anymore. Nothing scares him, no matter how much of a coward he acts. How can he worry for his life when he’s been through hell? Literally, he’s been on fire. He’s been frozen to the core and ran through with sharp objects. Nightmares are nothing.

But inside his head, it’s scary. Those approximations of his motivators, sex and death, sit aghast each night at the goings-on in his resting mind. Each night it seems a new memory haunts them. 

“Yikes…” Thanatos, curled up with his knobby knees to his chest. “No wonder we got our work cut out for us…” He shakes his head as if to ward off this particular recollection. The boy, tied at his ankles above a pit of murky poison, it’s caustic miasma burning their eyes.

“Aren’t you supposed to be death itself? How can you be such a pussy?”

“Hey, I’m here because he oughta be  _ afraid _ to die.”

“You’re not doing a very good job.”

“Oh, don’t get me started on  _ you,  _ pally. Eros? Is that why The Rusty’s had a six month dry spell?”

“Shut up!” He whacks the spectre with his golden bow. “There’s only so much I can do!”

They drop it, because they always do. To argue gives their vessel headaches, and they can’t take another bout of painkiller abuse. They sweep up the debris that forms in his head, they shut the heavy doors that lead to his darkest places. He’ll wake up soon. They’ll be blinded by that damned alarm, that glowing apparition that only reminds The Rusty of his own incompetence. Thanatos pops open his parasol against the sight, shielding them both. Though they fight, though they push and pull constantly, the two know they cannot exist without one another. Eros floats lightly by his shoulder, nodding in thanks, too sheepish to say it aloud. 

They’re mirrored outside of their vessel. They’ve spent years speculating why they’ve taken these forms. Maybe they’re just familiar, the ones The Rusty sees the most. Loves the most, even if he won’t say it. They just can’t get him to  _ say it _ , not to anyone. Even those boys. But, stuck in his head like being stuck in a dream, they keep on trying. They see their mirror images, flesh and blood, and deny, deny, deny what they see. That just like them, the two men are bound. That they share long glances and communicate without speaking. Peter and Billy. Funny.

“I cannot stand this guy’s voice,” Eros complains, rubbing at his temples. “Every fucking morning.”

_ Good morning me! _

“Why doesn’t he just turn it off?” Thanatos holds out one gloved hand, exasperated as ever. “Oh  _ right _ , because The Rusty loves bein’ miserable.”

“No shit.” 

 

They’re left alone for a few hours in the morning, their vessel groggy until three cups of black coffee later. They do nothing but wander, checking around corners and brushing away dust from the things that ought to make him happy. Of late the dust has been thicker, and they’ve tried everything to get it to stay clean in here, tried everything to get The Rusty to notice that he’s fallen into squalor. Kept him up nights, kept him asleep during the day. Every little warning sign the two of them could think of, but no one notices. Not even his sons, so grown up they are now. His bodyguard, bored and absent, seems not to care. And his friends, their doppelgängers, are too absorbed in one another to see, too busy toiling away for The Rusty, just as hard as they are. If only they could kick him right where it hurts, make him scream. But he’s stubborn, and stalwart, and of late, perhaps, they’ve let themselves slack off.

It’s like giving up. If their hard work doesn’t make a difference, doesn’t make The Rusty get help, then they know that all they can do is wait. All they can do is let him dream his terrible memories, let him skip breakfast. Let him collect dust.

They can only sit side by side exchanging jests. They can only muse to one another,  _ you know, for the representation of Death you’re pretty lively. _ And they laugh.  _ For the pinnacle of Sex you sure do seem like a virgin.  _ They play catch with the meaningless thoughts, they laugh at the very few happy things they have left to find. Not all of his memories are bad. There was a while when he was free. Young, but old enough. Living without his father, but soon he died. And now he’s still free, but he misses being trapped. There’s no one to tell him what he’s supposed to do anymore. He’ll never admit how often he wishes there were. 

Awake, he has control. Not even sex or death can quell his unease. He’s not sure which one he wants more.

 

—

 

His first cup is piping. Second is hot, third is warm but not quite hot enough. He’s not above microwaving it. But neither is he above looking across the room, noting how far away the microwave is, and deciding it’s not worth the effort. His head hurts, but he’s out of medicine. Billy won’t give him more. Asshole.  _ For your own good _ my ass. What if he decides to tell him that his ‘boyfriend’ still does blow from time to time? If he pits them against each other, he can get away with anything. 

But even Rusty isn’t so heartless, knowing they’re happily working together, being productive and managing not to argue. A feat of superscience if he’s ever seen one. 

He winces as he sips his lukewarm coffee, turning his head at the sound of the elevator opening. It’s about damn time, he thinks, seeing Brock stroll in at half-past nine, sleep still clearly fading from his eyes. 

“Nice of you to join us,” he mumbles into the rim of the coffee cup. 

“Couldn’t sleep, Doc.” He pulls his sunglasses down and hooks them into his shirt. “Looks like you’re real uh...busy.” The newspaper on the table is spread wide.

“Part of the  _ process, _ ” he claims, placing his coffee cup on the table, on top of the newspaper. A ring will form. They’re everywhere and he can’t seem to clean them up. I’ll get to it, I’ll get to it. He can’t count the number of times he’s not  _ gotten to it _ , seen Brock rip a paper towel from the roll and wipe up his mess. Whatever. He’s not paying him to be a maid.

“You don’t look like you slept great either,” Brock comments, peering at the bags under Rusty’s eyes, even darker and heavier than usual.

_ Had a bad dream,  _ Rusty thinks. But what else is new. They’re all bad unless they’re naughty, and even then, whatever he’s fucking usually turns into a golem or an angry mummy or something like that.

“Headache…” He doesn’t have to tell the whole truth if he doesn’t lie. Even if Brock can see right through him, after all this time. Billy and White can, as well, but the two of them are too busy mooning over one another to bother doing anything about it. He has to wonder if they even realize how obvious it is, and he has to be thankful that they don’t try to help. It’s just easier to scowl than to smile.

“So why am I down here today, Doc? I don’t see anyone trying to kill ya.”

Rusty frowns, hating how it hurts that he has to  _ ask,  _ that he can’t just  _ want  _ to be here. He used to just...hang out. No reason or responsibility other than just being there. 

“Sonny and Cher over there got another threat. Seemed more serious this time.”

“God, Doc I’m not  _ their  _ bodyguard.”

“No, but I could get caught in the crossfire!” Rusty presses a hand to his own chest as if aghast, offended.

They stare across the coffee table. Rusty doesn’t have the energy to argue, and perhaps the look on his face does enough. Of late, when he’s looked in the mirror, he’s seen just how pathetic he is. There’s a lonesome pleading in his eyes, and it’s not fucking cute. He hates how thrilled he is to have Brock’s  _ pity,  _ but he’ll take what he can get. 

“Donut?” he asks, pushing the box across the table. 

 

—

 

Inside, his motivators sigh.

“We live in a dumbass,” Thanatos laments, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

“I wish we had control over his limbs. We could slap him.”

“Isn’t this your area? This little schoolboy crush he has on the big guy?”

“You don’t think I’ve tried?” Eros asks, arms out to his sides. “The Rusty has more internalized homophobia than  _ you _ do!”

“I do  _ not! You’re _ the homophobe! You freaked out when The Rusty’s Id made us...ya know…”

“Because you were so into it!”

“I was tryin’ to be convincing! For The Rusty’s sake!”

They both fold their arms across their chests, stern and seeped in denial. 

“I dunno what to do for him anymore…”

“We have to get him to be happy—“ A darkness falls into his gaze, a light breeze flapping through his robes and scarf. “Or soon the cold hand of despair will wrap around his heart, he will have no choice but to give in to his sorrow and shuffle off his mortal coil and move onto the next realm! The desperation comes for him like a moth to a flame and soon his inevitable—“

Thanatos feels two small hands on his cheeks, squishing his face.

“You’re doing it again, buddy.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn’t resist having Thanatos make one of those death speeches. Please leave comments if you can! They make my day!
> 
> Sorry for the kind of uneventful chapter I just wanted to solidly establish the premise.


	2. Couples Counseling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eros and Thanatos consult the Id about Rusty's secret feelings.

 

It’s not a trip they make eagerly. They’ve not seen the Id since that...memorable experience that’s left them unable to maintain eye contact for too long.

“I can’t believe we’ve gotta go see him,” Thanatos complains, arms folded, parasol closed and tucked into the crook of his elbow. “If you could just do your job--”

“I can’t  _ make _ him do anything he doesn’t want to! You know that. It’s why you can’t keep him from doing dumb shit like jumping out windows.”

“I was tired that day.”

“You-- always with the excuses!” There comes a swift  _ whack  _ with that little golden bow, to which Thanatos opens his parasol like a shield.

“Pipe down, will ya? The Id gets feisty when people argue.”

They knock, if reluctantly, giving one another a parting look as if they’re about to jump off a cliff.

That peaky young man slides the door open, grinning already, his leafy crown glistening in the dim light.

“Ah! It’s the flying baby! And the angel of death! Have you come to please me again?” He looks so god damn  _ excited _ ....

“Ah-- no, not exactly…” Thanatos scratches the back of his neck as they enter the room. That constant compendium of women is still there, taunting them as ever. He rolls his eyes. Fat chance, The Rusty.

“Then why have you come?” As if from nowhere, he hands them two hefty glasses of red wine. “To drink and make merry? To try again to have one of The Rusty’s women?”

“No, not that...either…” Eros takes the glass in hand and politely takes a sip. “Actually, about the women…”

“They are for The Rusty! And The Rusty alone!”

“Yeah we know! We--” He hands his glass to Thanatos. He can double fist if he wants. Eros flies over to the rotating mattress and points. “Isn’t there someone  _ missing? _ ”

“You misunderstand just as he did! The butterfly woman is the same woman as Charlene!”

“As  _ who? _ Listen, pally, that’s not what we mean…” Thanatos sighs, looking around for a seat. It seems like every chair in the room faces the mattress, forcing him to look. It’s...kind of gross, when he thinks about it. And though he’s not sure why, he feels some sort of nagging guilt about staring. He’s not even sure he  _ wants  _ to stare… He sits with one leg crossed over the other, placing one wine glass on the table. “Buddy, ya _ gotta _ help me with this. If I get drunk The Rusty tends to...overshare with his sons.”

Eros rolls his eyes and takes back his glass.

“There’s someone we think The Rusty wants that he won’t admit.”

“The large man! With the flaxen hair and the deep voice!”

“Uh...yeah. How did you know?”

The Id grins and pours himself a glass of wine, taking a generous sip.

“I’ve been trying to get him a seat on the mattress for years, but The Rusty is a stubborn vessel. Though I suppose I could...put in a little more effort if you please me!”

“Oh jeeze--” Thanatos groans, tossing back some wine, coughing. “What is this?  _ Zinfandel? _ Bitter.”

“It is Cabernet! The Rusty pretends to like Cabernet!”

The two spirits look at one another, strained looks of determination on their faces. They both finish their glasses.

“Alright buddy, what do we gotta do?” Thanatos asks, standing up, placing his parasol on the chair and cracking his knuckles.

“Hmmm…..~” The Id places a hand to his chin in thought. “You shall lay with each other! In my lounge! And you will drink! And you will kiss! And we will be merry!”

“L...lay with each other?” Eros asks, grimacing.

“There will be at least cuddling!”

“C’mon pally, let’s just get it over with…” Thanatos places a hand at Eros’s back and leads him to the leather lounge. After six ounces of Cabernet, he’s willing, he’s careless. It’s not as though last time it was so bad...He guesses it was a good kiss; all he has to go on is The Rusty’s experience. 

They lay side by side, hands clasped on their chests like their dead, and the Id sits across the room, feeding himself seedless grapes, staring with a grin on his face.

“Just do it already,” Eros complains, turning onto his side.

“Why do I gotta be the one to initiate it? We’re supposed to work as a team, here.”

“Ugh…” Eros gulps, biting the insides of his cheeks, and burrows into Thanatos’s neck, short arms sliding around his shoulders. “Just bear with me, okay? It won’t be so bad.”

“I know...told ya I wasn’t a homophobe…” He settles his long arms around Eros’s back, easing into the embrace. 

“Wonderful! The Rusty will be pleased! Your counterparts have been, as The Rusty says _ , ‘Ross and Rachel-ing it’  _ for years!”

“Heh?” Thanatos asks, lifting his chin from that soft, reddish hair.

“Yes! Now kiss! And make me believe it!”

They pull away so that they’re face to face, the wine allowing them each an earnest look. A rare smile even tugs at the corner of Thanatos’s mouth. For the spectre of death, it does not look so odd on his pale face. 

“Alright--” But Eros is soon interrupted in his floundering, Thanatos bending his head down to press his nervous lips to his. Parted, easier this time, like he knows better what to do. His gloved hands rest on those rounded cheeks, and he feels his jaw give against his affections. Their toes curl, knees bending on the lounge, drifting closer to one another.

All they hear are the gentle chymes that line the room, the soft smacking of wet lips. It’s...nice. Their cheeks flush, surely, their ears feeling hot, hot, _ hot _ \-- even the women nearby fall silent, the Id in utter awe of the sweet display.

Distracted, they go on. Legs entwining some. Eventually, they hear harsh clapping from across the room.

“Perfection! You have pleased me! You will please The Rusty with your undeniable love!”

“Hey now I wouldn’t uh...let’s not get ahead of ourselves, kid…”

“Yeah I don’t think we can call it that--”

“Nonsense! For love is beautiful! Now rise!” He lifts his arms and strides toward the lounge. “Clasp hands as you leave! I will get right to work on convincing The Rusty of his true desires!”

Sheepishly, they get back on their feet, clammy hands meeting. Their grip is tighter than it ought to be, they suppose. But the Id bids them their leave without another word, rubbing his hands together as if plotting. Once the door is closed they let go one one another’s hands.

“It was...not bad. I’m sorry I got so mad at you last time,” Eros tells him, folding his arms across his bare chest.

“I uh...yeah. I’m sorry too.”

They head to Master Control, having long been granted access  _ just in case _ . They have  _ got _ to see what happens next. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: some Brusty feelings.


	3. Dialectical, Diabolical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rusty and co. have a game night.

 

People think they’ve experienced the whole range of emotions. But how can anyone have felt as much as him? How can anyone have been so terrorized and sad that they’ve shut off entirely? Rusty thinks he has the choice not to feel. He thinks he’s shut it down successfully, that all he desires is the most basic of needs and that he cares for nothing but himself. How nice that would be, he thinks.

His boys are visiting, playing Trivial Pursuit with Brock. Dean’s winning, of course. White, drinking at the bar with Billy, checking the answers on the internet to make sure the cards are right. Rusty’s on the end of the couch, closest to the window. When he’s not gazing vaguely between his friends, his family, he looks out into the night. He’s up so high, it feels like he owns everything he can see. He should feel like a king, an emperor. A god of his own domain, so rich and important. But it would be the same anywhere, right? It was the same in their old musty basement at the compound, this. Board games and a drunk Billy ranking the Mad Max movies.

He feels a tightening in his chest. If he hadn’t been trying to take better care of himself lately, he’d worry about a heart attack. But no, it’s just warm, heavy, causing him to scratch at his sternum as if he can get the knot out. He’s experienced every emotion known to man, but he has so much trouble naming this one. It’s more complicated than happiness. There is no single word for it. It’s  _ sitting on the couch smiling at how Brock looks when he’s trying fruitlessly to answer a Trivial Pursuit question _ . It’s _ Hank and Dean, laughing like they’re little again, and my favorite drink in my hand _ . It’s  _ that time of night where Billy and White are two drinks in, and they start flirting without realizing it _ . Rusty will call that feeling anything but happiness. He’s not cut out for that. He’s not allowed. He learned that lesson early.

Dean yawns and shuffles the cards.

“Another round?” he asks, grinning. He gets brave when his father lets him have a drink. 

“No, I don’t feel like getting my ass kicked again, thank you,” Hank tells him, smacking him gently on the back of the head. “I wanna play... _ The Game of Life! _ ” 

“Hank, that game only sets you up for disappointment,” Rusty tells him, wagging a finger. “Life isn’t as easy as pushing a plastic car around a cardboard map.”

Brock gives a soft but hearty laugh, and Rusty can’t help the pull of a satisfied smile on his lips. He’s always.. _.proud _ , when he can make Brock laugh. He’s usually so stone cold.

“Whatever…” Hank says, haughty as ever. “I’m gonna go find Uncle Hatred. Dean?”

“Yeah…” He stands, pushing himself up with his hands on his knees. Just like his father. They move the same. Poor kid. “See ya later, Pop. Brock. Mr. White, Dr. Wha-- oh…”

Billy is face-down on the bar, dozing comfortably.

“I’ll give him your regards,” Pete jests, patting his big head. “Guess I oughta bring him home…”

With a mumbled goodbye, they leave, Billy passed out in Pete’s arms as they board the elevator. Rusty hears White whispering some sort of meaningless comfort. _ It’s alright, pally, I’ll tuck ya in… _

“Get a room!” Rusty shouts as the elevator door closes on them. Brock chuckles again and has a long sip of his beer. “It’s infuriating, those two.”

“Tell me about it,” Brock broods, leaning back into the cushions. 

“And I thought _ I  _ was emotionally constipated.”

“Well ya...ya kinda are, Doc,” he corrects, giving him a stern but friendly glance. “I mean...come _ on _ .” 

“I am perfectly in touch with my feelings!” he says, wagging that same knowing finger at him. “They’re just not pertinent. I have a company to run.”

“Pirate runs the company, Doc you’re like a...figure head.”

“Well then why aren’t there any parades in my honor?”

Another gentle laugh, a snort. Brock shrugs as if taking it under consideration. That sounds like something his _ father  _ would do, not him. For all his ego, Rusty knows when to dial it back, at least. He’ll claim it’s his humility, and not any sort of self-loathing that makes him that way.

He coughs, that warm feeling in his chest still present. He’s had only one drink, so it can’t be intoxication either. 

“I’m going to guess you don’t want to play any more Trivial Pursuit?” Rusty asks, sweeping up the pieces of the game and folding the map up to put back in the box.

“More of a Parcheze guy…”

“Hungry Hungry Hippos…” Rusty says, grinning like he’s so damn funny.

“I would wipe the floor with you at Hippos.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Do you have the game?”

“...no.”

“Then no. Unless you’re lying because you’re afraid to lose.”

Rusty huffs and picks up the box, bringing it over to the shelf to put it away. He stands at the shelf for a moment, fingers running over the boxes, the spines of books, the labels of video games. That damn feeling just won’t leave, and it morphs. It forms a void, like emptiness. That warm pit in his chest is missing something. He hates that. It’s so much easier to just know what you need, and get it. Simple things. Food. Sex. Sleep. He sighs and turns, ambling lazily back over to the couch. This time he sits next to Brock on the love seat.

“I’ve got money these days, you know. We can buy whatever board game you want,” he says, leaning his head back, staring at the ceiling.

“You bribing me?”

“No, Brock, I’m trying to be your  _ sugar daddy _ ,” he says, deadpan, rolling his eyes over at him. Brock laughs loud, covering his mouth with his fingers. “What?”

“Just...the idea of you bein’ a sugar daddy.”

“It sounds so  _ wrong  _ when you say it,” Rusty says, wincing.

“Maybe it’s because you’re an...actual father, I dunno.”

“Yeah. I forget that sometimes.”

“No shit.”

They squint at one another a moment, breeding some semblance of fake vitriol, and then burst out laughing, leaning in toward each other as they always do. Briefly, that pit inside of him does not feel so wide, so hollow. Once their laughter dies down, coming out in short, tired bursts, they’re left with nothing but silence and the teary-eyed look between them.

He’s experienced every emotion. Fear, especially. But there’s nothing quite so daunting as this.

 

__

 

“Oh, come  _ on! _ ” Thanatos shouts, balling his fists. “That woulda been the perfect moment!”

“God, he was like,  _ right there!  _ And the laughter? That’s some romcom level shit!” Eros buries his face in his hands and sighs. “I guess we’ve gotta give the Id more time.”

Thanatos groans, spinning the handle of his parasol. His cheeks still feel warm, and he blames it on the tension of the scene they observe.  _ Not _ on what happened before. Not on how his chest heaved and he felt some relentless stirring between his thighs.  _ Stupid.  _ Eros, too, hasn’t said word one about it since they left that den of sin.

And yet they sit next to one another, inching closer by the hour. Thanatos has one long arm cast over the back of the seat, around Eros like a shield. 

“Maybe I have to push him to do something,” Eros says, pressing his fingers to his chin. “The Id is effective, but The Rusty is old. He’s spent a long time ignoring impulses.”

“Then what are ya gonna do?” Thanatos asks, shifting in his seat, facing him in full.

“Just trust me,” he says, smiling impishly, rubbing his hands together. “I uh...already know it works, this method. From recent experience.”

Thanatos stares for a moment, suspicious, wondering just what in the hell he means by that. That knowing, devilish look doesn’t last long, though; soon Eros’s face turns a little red and his eyes dart away.

“Oh my god,” Thanatos nearly shouts. “You’re gonna get him drunk!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm like "ok....gotta write rusty and brock flirting" and then i'm done and i realize how similar it is to the way they interact in canon and i'm just "....wow, gay, alright--"
> 
> Eros be careful.
> 
> That's not foreshadowing.
> 
> >:)


	4. Coping Mechanisms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The best laid plans, know what I’m sayin’

There’s so little else to do. It was always like that, of course, but  _ before _ he just drank because he was depressed, steeped in denial. These days there’s less to feel hopeless about, but still there’s so much idleness. No matter how hard they all work, there are still long stretches of nothing upon nothing.

They’re on the rooftop, their feet in the pool, pants rolled up. He and Brock, side by side, kicking in the water like children. It’s the last hot day of the year, so everyone is predicting. Rusty’s slumming it, drinking a simple cocktail. Bright pink, of course, since Pete suggested it.  _ It’s raspberry! That’s the manliest berry, ask anyone.  _ At least there’s plenty of gin in it. 

He takes a sip and looks into the clear, warm water. His veiny feet look even paler when beneath the surface. It’s a wonder he can even do this, having nearly drowned so many times. It’s a wonder he can be on the top floor, haven’t been pushed off of so many buildings. So much has happened. So much has happened that all his experience has cancelled out his fear. He’s only afraid in his dreams. Only when he’s facing that great big nameless nothing. But the only scary thing about living is _ this _ . His skinny hands splayed on the tile that lines the pool, dwarfed by Brock’s massive fingers. Rusty knows how gentle they can be. When they’re balled into a fist they’re a weapon to rival whatever crazy shit his father dreamed up. But when they’re curved, soft, around his shoulder or beneath his knees to carry him...somehow his touch is feather-light. Even the callouses. Rusty likes to think that’s his and only his, that if Brock were to cradle anyone else in his impossibly wide arms, he would not be so careful--

But maybe it’s just because he’s so obviously fragile. He’s no stronger than when he was just a child.

“Canonbaaaaaall!” 

Rusty winces and holds up an arm to shield himself from the inevitable splash. For such a small man, Billy always makes a massive impact on the water. Must be his head.

“You gonna jump in, Doc?” Brock asks, lips touching the opening of his beer bottle just-so. 

“No, because I’m not a  _ child _ .” 

“Do a backflip next time!” Pete yells from the sidelines, sheltered beneath his umbrella. 

“...and I guess that puts me in rare company,” Rusty mumbles. He tosses back his Raspberry Collins, hating how good it tastes. Brock chuckles, louder than he ought. Maybe he’s a little tipsy, maybe it’s the sunshine. There’s something about being beneath the fading sun that gives Rusty that same, odd feeling. Like something about it is right. Even if everything ought to be wrong. Nothing,  _ nothing _ in his life has ever been right. Or at least that’s what he’s decided. 

“Well I’m gettin’ in,” Brock says, promptly chugging the remainder of his beer. One of those local brews with a high alcohol content. Douchey. With a light grunt, Brock hoists himself up and then down into the water, causing soft waves. He doesn’t even have to tread water. Billy frowns, looking defeated. He turns that giant head to Pete, who gives him a sympathetic thumbs-up. The _ solidarity _ between those two these days…

In his swimsuit, Brock looks Herculean as ever. Rusty’s grip tightens around his tallboy glass. He’s long called that feeling jealousy. 

“Billy, toss me the beachball,” Brock says, calm but teasing.

“Oh ha-ha,” Billy says, swimming toward the ball. “You’re just going to spike it into my head again. You  _ popped _ the last one.” 

Rusty blames his staring on his buzz. Blames the warmth of his skin on the sun. Pete hands him another Raspberry Collins, wincing for the brief moment he has to be in the light, and Rusty mumbles his thanks.

“Jeeze, and ya make fun a’  _ me _ …” he says, flicking Rusty on the ear.

“Wh- what’s that supposed to mean!?” Though he knows. Pete laughs, sacrificing his sensitive skin for just a moment longer, squatting down to talk to Rusty so no one can hear.

“...m’only sayin’ this because I’ve been hittin’ the sauce pretty hard…” He coughs and swirls his cocktail. “But if you don’t have the balls to admit how the big guy makes ya all hot n’ bothered then I’ll never admit how I...ya know…” With his drink he indicates Billy, holding tight onto the beach ball and trying to stay above water as Brock makes massive waves. 

“You  _ have _ been hitting the sauce, White. Go back in the shade.” He swats him off.

 

__

 

In Master Control, they grin at the scene unfolding, holding each their own glasses of the Id’s bitter wine, because it’s all they’ve got.

“The real me is workin’ harder than you, pally,” Thanatos says. 

“Oh come on, he’s just drunk! Anyone would say that shit when they’re drunk!” Eros complains, smacking him on the arm.

“Whatever. I think it’s workin’.”

Even just a few sips in, they feel as if their surroundings sway. The Rusty drinks, and so they drink. Their ears feel hot and their words slur. They drift closer on their padded, velvet couch. Thanatos chose it, so gaudy and gothic he is. But Eros has come to like it, come to enjoy the feeling of the soft fabric on his pale and clean skin. He’s come to enjoy the heavy feeling of death’s presence beside him, and he smiles, uncontrollable, cheeks nearly aching from the stretch.

“You know…” he says, absently, turning in his seat, crossing his legs to face Thanatos. “You haven’t made one of your little speeches in a while.”

“Huh...I guess you’re right.” He too, turns, bending his knees, curling closer to Eros in the couch. He giggles, The Rusty’s giddiness rubbing off. “Ya wanna hear one? That bad?” He leans his chin in his palm, teasing.

“Take advantage of it while it lasts, dude. They usually just annoy me…”

“Alright, alright, hang on.” Thanatos coughs, righting his posture, taking another sip of wine. He finds, now, that he’s nervous. Like he’s been put on the spot and has to perform. And this, in front of the man he’s spoken to for years and years. Stupid. “...though The Rusty feels a burgeoning giddiness brought on by the lust he cannot quell, still he looks over the edge of his ivory tower to the ground below for freedom! He cannot escape his desires, neither libidinal nor morose!” His eyes turn black, and he drops his wineglass to the ground, and it shatters. His gloved hands surround Erie’s cheeks, leaning closer as he goes on. “He must give in to one or the other, lest he turn his self-loathing into rage against those he loves the most!” They’re nose-to-nose now, Eros’s lips hanging open. Awe, fear... _ want _ . “So deep is his confusion he melds the two motivators together! Sex and death are one in The Rusty! To give in to want is to die!”

“Thanatos—“ 

Those skinny fingers spread across Eros’s cheeks, darkened eyes nearly glowing to look upon the personification of lust.

“We have no choice but to allow The Rusty his gratification—“

“Buddy—“ Eros says, breathless. He wishes not even to stop him, so hard does his voice thrum in his chest. “What do you mean?”

“Love me and despair, dear Eros! Fulfill the prophecy!”

When finally his void-like eyes close, their lips have met. Willing, desperate, with no one to tell them they must. Thanatos falls backwards into the couch, Eros atop him like pouncing. They’re messy, drunk on their vessel’s own inebriation, all tongues and teeth and hands. Searching, feeling. The ecstatic sighs and gasps of love echoing within the dark walls of Master Control.

 

—

 

The day progresses, hot sun falling in the sky from its peak at noon. Lunch was little sandwiches and chips, food light enough to keep them all swimming and laying about.

Pete and Billy make their exit, eager to walk the streets beneath an umbrella and go bar-hopping. Brock and Rusty put money down on a bet as to whether or not it will end in sex. 

“ _ Somebody _ around here needs to get some,” Brock says, on his eighth beer.

“Really? No luck?” Rusty asks, surprised, and certainly showing it. Eyebrows raised and pupils the size of pins.

“Been uh...too busy.”

Silence falls. A comfortable one, as always. They have been around one another—  _ together _ — for so long, it seems that they can just exist. Wan smiles on their faces, drinks in their hands. They’ve done this countless times, and yet Rusty finds himself fidgeting. There is something ringing in his chest, something squeezing at his heart. A dizzying feeling not unlike his drunkenness. Maybe a sugar high from all that raspberry syrup. He gulps down the rest of his drink, eyes wide as if at the edge of the highest of cliffs. And  _ isn’t _ he? This skyscraper, these terrifying desires. He cannot even fathom what would happen if he jumped, turned to Brock and said every idiotic thing that’s been on his mind for years. No matter how he shapes the words, it doesn’t sound right in his head.  _ I think I’ve loved you for a long time, more than I hate myself. _ Dramatic. He’ll come out sounding like teenage poetry. But there is so much behind his gritting teeth…

“Brock…” he says, barely hearing himself. It’s as if he’s under that clear water. Drowning himself.  _ God _ , he just might. “Do you hate me?” Fuck. That’s not how he planned it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:)
> 
> Rusty stop
> 
> Your mind is fucking itself in more ways than one right now


	5. Fatalistic Tendencies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brock and Rusty finally break the tension, but it doesn't go the way they'd like.

It’s as if autumn descends upon them in mere moments. A light breeze sends small ripples through the now-empty pool. An unfamiliar chill runs up Rusty’s slouching spine. Like want, like cold. Drowning.

“...the fuck kind of a question is that, Doc?” Brock grumbles, words muffled as he holds an as-yet unlit cigarette in his mouth. The clicking of the lighter makes Rusty flinch, and he knows he’s in no position to tell him to put it out.

“It’s like it sounds,” he says, hating how pedantic his tone is. He can’t help it. It’s as if he’s stuck being an asshole forever, even when he wishes he could be sweet. “You have every reason to.” He says it with such finality, he almost doesn’t expect an answer.

“Yeah, I sure do.” It is punctuated by the rough inhale of smoke. Rusty winces for the smell, the hurt in his chest, the hurt in his heart. Brock exhales and leans forward, elbows on his knees. “What do ya want me to say, Doc? That you stifle me? That you drag me through all your crazy adventures and all I get out of it is...a twelve pack of beer and a lame pool party?”

Rusty bites the insides of his cheeks. That’s a start. It almost feels good, almost feels like catharsis, hearing all this at once. 

“...alright,” he mumbles. He’s not sure what he means.  _ Alright, you can stop, I get it. Alright, you hate me, so I can squash my feelings as I always do _ . 

“I mean, come  _ on, _ Doc, that last blackout team was the first time in years I ever got to do anything  _ remotely _ useful. I’m practically a babysitter.”

His words sting as much as they slur. Rusty bends his knees to his chest.

“They boys don’t need a babysitter, they have a father--”

“I’m not talkin’ about the  _ boys _ .” 

Rusty can feel cold eyes on him, but he refuses to look. He’s felt everything, every kind of fear, but this has him paralyzed. He really is just a child, isn’t he? A forty-something baby who can’t help himself. He’s got all these expensive toys and all this room to roam and grow but he chooses to stay _ Rusty Venture: Boy Adventurer  _ forever. And Brock is just another grown-up who reluctantly protects him. And why? He has no Jonas Sr. looming over him. He has a government salary and a love for Hank and Dean that always seems to dwarf their own father’s. It’s not true, it’s not true, he just doesn’t know how to say it. How to show it. If he can’t let his own sons know how full his heart can be, how the hell is he supposed to admit it to Brock? It’s stupid, stupid. Some super-scientist, fumbling with the most basic of emotions. He curls his fingers around his bare head and tries to take a deep breath.

“If that’s the way you feel then you can quit. Again.” His voice is grim, deeper than usual. 

There’s a loathsome groan from Brock, the same exasperated sigh that Rusty’s grown used to. It’s never hurt so much…

“Should be the way I feel, right?” With a grunt, Brock gets to his feet, flicking his unfinsihed cigarette into the water. “I’m gonna go black out in my own vomit, Doc.” 

Rusty stares vapidly into the rippling pool. The cigarette takes on water like a boat, and saturates, and sinks. Just like that, Rusty feels the burning inside of him turn to a cold, damp ache.

 

\--

 

They lay on the cool floor. It’s the kind of scene one ought to smoke a cigarette in. Post-coitus, breathing heavy and letting beads of sweat evaporate into the lusty air. Their heads light, Eros and Thanatos smile bashfully at the ceiling, all messy in their disheveled clothes and messy hair.

“That was...somethin’...” Thanatos says, breathless, reaching for his jacket to toss over them both. 

“Oh you are so repressed,” Eros scolds, though he turns on his side to rest his forehead on that pale, skinny shoulder. “Just say you liked it.”

“You first.”

He’s met with silence, and then a gentle laugh. Just like their counterparts, they steep in denial even at the most intimate junctures. It is The Rusty’s will, The Rusty’s way. There is nothing they can do but curl around one another, nestling like spoons.

Still the both twitch with pleasure, but there is a sadness in their movements that they can’t quite place. It might be shame, considering what they’ve done, what they’ve shared. They know The Rusty would feel that same hesitance to be joyous. 

But it’s something else. There’s a chill through the room, like a bad omen. Thanatos sits up, buttoning his shirt and righting his collar.

“Somethin’s wrong here…” he says, voice still stuck in its tender tone. “Feels cold.”

“Cold?” Eros is quick to wrap himself in that long, black cloak. It utterly drowns him, but its scent is so much the musk of his dearest Death, he cannot help the way he holds it tight around his shoulders.

“...it comes for him,” Thanatos drones, arms falling to his sides, his eyes darkened and raised to the corner of the ceiling. Water drips through. Slowly, at first, like a leak. And then it pours, and then it cascades. All that delicate equipment fizzes and pops, and Eros is quick to float and grab Thanatos by the arm.

“We’ve gotta get outta here…” The water spreads across the floor, up to Thanatos’s ankles.

“There is no escape from the embrace of death! His lungs will fill with water and the poison of chlorine!” He is stalwart, feet fixed to the flooded ground, still-disheveled clothes billowing in the wind, all that sweetness gone from his throat. “He has chosen me, Eros. Our copulation has resulted in nothing but his demise! Hold fast to me that we may perish together!”

“Peri-- shut up, will you! We’ve gotta do something before this places becomes overloaded!” He flinches at the sparks that come from the control panel, from the ceiling and walls.

Thanatos turns, finally, a sad little smile on his pale lips, and he reaches out a hand to grasp Eros’s own. 

“It has been the most dire of pleasures.”

For the embodiment of death, he is so expertly full of love.

 

__

 

He’s felt everything. This included. He’s been plunged leagues down into the water before, left to struggle, and give up, and die. It’s nothing new save for the sorrow. Before, when drowning, all he could feel was indignant. Someone else had done this to him. Not this time.

Any of Rusty’s previous attempts have been half-assed, non-violent. Too many Xanax. Subtle starvation until his ribs shown through his shirt. Not like this, not forced under the water by his own will and his own desperation.

It’s stupid. He knows it’s so fucking stupid, and yet he’s done it. Eyes open to the blurry lights that line the pool, limbs spread carelessly, drunkenly. He’s too far gone and too weak to swim back to the surface. He just wants to go to bed. He just wants to rest and dream and not think about how his life is a fucking mess--

He wants to lie and tell himself it’s just because of Brock. That he’s just gotten his feelings hurt and is having one of his famous overreactions.

But hasn’t this been a long time coming? The perfect opportunity, left alone on a rooftop? Brock’s inside, passed out by now, still seething, eager to sleep it off.

There is no one there to save him.

Death’s embrace is familiar. He supposes that’s from all the close calls. A lifetime of kidnapping, torture, being left to rot. He’s just been getting ready for the end. Death’s embrace is strong, warm. It’s gentle around his suffering lungs, as if it must take great care to bring him to hell in one piece.

If there is an afterlife, that’s where he’ll be going. He’s sure of it.

Death is gasping, a sudden coolness of night air slapping you in the face. A thick hand, doing the same. A deep voice, scolding you, pleading with you. Compressions to your ribs and moonlight fading in and out.

It ends with those strong arms around your skinny shoulders, and you swear it feels just like being alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Hides behind something) don't hurt me--
> 
> Sorry if i scared anyone, he's fine he's fine! See?
> 
> A small analysis:
> 
> Real love is like a sort of death to Rusty, because he's never experienced it unfettered and without dishonesty. Therefore, when Sex and Death should meet and become one, he has no choice but to try and die. But Brock ain't let that happen, nope.


	6. Treatment Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Le end. Rusty and Brock come to an emotionally constipated understanding.

He wakes up to the feeling of rough hands driving hard into his sternum, to the sensation of water rising in his throat like so much bile. It’s not his first set of broken ribs. It’s not his first resuscitation, of course. Not even by this particular pair of hands.

He coughs up ounces of stinging chlorine, quick to sit up and grasp for his own aching chest and breathe, hard and heavy.

“Brock—“

“Shut up,” Brock tells him, a palm on his shivering shoulders. “Jesus, Doc, what the hell is wrong with you?” 

Some comfort. Rusty’s not sure what he expected from him. All Brock’s sweetness seems to come at random, the wrong time, and is always met with reproach. That’s his own fault, Rusty knows. But right now he can’t be bothered to chide him, can’t be bothered to even speak, so rough are his throat and lungs. All he can do is curl his pathetic frame into the curve of Brock’s body. He’s...tired. Dying is exhausting. It always is, every time he gets this close. He can’t count how many times he’s chosen to just crawl into bed and sleep off the sadness, put off his despair for a few hours until he’s too groggy to bother.

“...c’mon…” Brock grumbles, hooking his thick arms beneath Rusty’s knees and arms, cradling him like a child or a bride. “Dumbass…”

“...sorry--” he manages to croak out, shivering, curling himself so small he’s sure he can disappear. Wouldn’t that be easier? For everyone? This place, despite the name on the tower, can exist without him. 

Brock says nothing, simply lays him on the couch inside and tosses a blanket over his shaking body. Rusty hears the click of a lighter, the sharp inhale of smoking. He can’t be bothered to scold him, to ask him to put it out. He feels the weight of the couch shift; Brock is sitting on the far end of the cushions. At least he hasn’t left him. 

“God, Doc I know we argued but you don’t have to go and try to kill yourself over it…”

Rusty says nothing. He gathers the blanket around himself more tightly and shuts his eyes against the bright lights of the living room. The infancy of a hangover, coupled with the effects of nearly drowning.

“I mean, I know it’s not all because of me. My ego’s not that big.” He takes a long drag off his cigarette. The smell of smoke is harsh against Rusty’s lungs, but again, he doesn’t complain. He has no right to it. “But Jesus...look, I’m sorry, alright? I’m not gonna argue with you like a little girl anymore. We’re grown ups. I know you’re-- you’re stuck bein’ a little kid for the rest of your life but you’re a grown fuckin’ man, Doc.”

Rusty despises how right he is. How he sees through all the years of bitterness right into his perpetually broken heart.

“Men should be honest with each other.” Here comes the cowboy speech. He doesn’t have the strength to roll his eyes. “And...the truth is if you died I’d be pissed. And not just because it means I’m bad at my job, alright? Does that make you not wanna drown yourself?”

Beneath the cocoon of the blanket, he nods his head. 

“Good.” He feels a heavy hand on his legs, feels his skinny knees lifted. Brock scoots over on the couch, resting Rusty’s legs across his lap. That same hand presses against his back, runs up and down. That’s better. That’s real comfort.

“I’m too drunk to talk about this,” Brock says. “But we got a lot to talk about.”

He nods again. There’s a faint trace of a smile on his lips, hidden beneath the blanket. It feels wrong to know any twinge of happiness, right now. But somewhere in him there’s warmth despite his chill. His heart feels full with the knowledge that there’s someone who doesn’t want him to die.

 

\--

 

Inside, the water level dissipates. They huddle close on the loveseat, watching their vessel dry out, learn to breathe.

“Are we safe? Eros asks, eyeing their surroundings, cautious and trembling. Thanatos tightens his arm around his small shoulders.

“I think…” He holds his free hand to his own pale cheek, gauging just how frozen his skin feels, how tired his eyes. “He’s alright. The big guy dove in and saved The Rusty.”

“...our plan didn’t work.”

“Didn’t it?” The flooding down to a mere inch or two, he stands, taking Eros by the hands and bidding him to float. “I mean, there were some hiccups…”

“Hiccups? He tried to drown himself!”

“Yeah, a’right, but...look at them…”

Outside, the Rusty sleeps soundly but drunkenly, dried by towels and warmed by fancy microfleece blankets. The big guy has him resting beneath his arm. Safe. Warm.

“Tomorrow, when they’re sober…” Eros trails off, looking tired and relieved, floating in toward Thanatos and wrapping his arms around his neck. “I’ll get him to tell him.”

“Tell him what?”

“That he’s in love, even if he hates it. He’s gotta stop pretending.”

Thanatos sighs, smiling, pulling Eros closer to him. A desperate embrace, celebrating that they can go on. Loving and living.

“Me too,” he says quietly, biting the insides of his cheeks. “I’m...in love too.”

“I know.”

“You did  _ not  _ just say that.”

“I did too. And I love you.”

Warmed by love, they sway, like dancing. Their heads feel light as their vessels. Amazed, that they can coexist, and touch, and kiss, and grin despite their sorrows. They only hope The Rusty can learn from them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for being patient with me while I worked on this last chapter, and for all of your kind words throughout the entire thing!


End file.
